


hard times gonna take you down

by cocked



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, Oblivious Gansey, Shopping, Unresolved Sexual Tension, heaps upon heaps of ugly teenage jealousy and pining, noah the helpful ghost, one entire almost handjob, ronan lynch is a little in love with all of his friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 02:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20734604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocked/pseuds/cocked
Summary: Gansey remains unsympathetic as he drifts toward the sweater table, a parent apathetically inflicting punishment upon his disobedient child. If Adam Parrish wasn’t within these same four walls, Ronan just might live up to Gansey’s expectations and throw himself on the ground like a toddler.Oh, the price of wanting to look cool and unaffected.





	hard times gonna take you down

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much just a couple slice-of-life moments from Ronan's friendship with the boys, pre-TRB. It might be a little bit messy and not all that coherent, but it's fine, just treat it like you would Noah Czerny.

Ronan Lynch hates shopping.

The six-count package of men's boxers in Gansey's hand proudly declares itself PREMIUM in a large gold font, as if this is a trait separating it from the rest of the department rather than a nonsense word Ronan's never understood the significance of. It looks and feels precisely like the last dozen pairs he's been asked to touch, but Gansey insists these are superior. Ronan knows there's a psychological term for this level of consumer gullibility in their materialistic, capitalistic society, but his brain is too stupefied with boredom to recall it.

“I'm not wearing those,” Ronan says.

Gansey looks up as if Ronan's slapped it out of his hands — something he has admittedly considered in his private quest for entertainment. “Why not? You just said it doesn't make a difference to you.”

“I meant the brand, not the color. Black, like my heart.”

Expression dubious, Gansey returns the package to its home. “I'm not sure why I brought you. What on God's green earth possessed me to think you could be helpful with your own shopping?”

“The ghost of naivety's past.”

“Comedic genius at its finest, Lynch. What about these?” He gestures to a singular plaid pair, black and white.

Ronan leans closer to his friend's face, squinting into his eyes. “Weird. Looks like you have your contacts in, and yet you can't tell these obviously aren't fucking black.”

A mighty shove sends Ronan back only a single step. Both of their mouths twitch upward even as Gansey says, “You're such an ass.”

While Gansey focuses at long last on a promising pack of black boxers, Ronan's attention drifts to the store around them. Noah's smudgy silhouette presses itself against a jewelry counter, gaze transfixed upon its sparkliest contents. The bored-looking woman at the counter ignores him. Another woman, wealthy and middle-aged, browses men's sweaters nearby as the baby in her stroller stares Ronan down with all the blank, mindless intent of either a doll or a killer. Ronan returns the stare with a sharp one of his own, unblinking; children are notorious for their sixth sense, however, and it sees some secret truth in him that its mother would not. It giggles.

The sounds of pleasant conversation return Ronan's suspicion to the other direction. Of course, Gansey has already engaged with one of the employees, a bright-eyed girl roughly their age who seems to find the shape of Gansey's arms more interesting than his questions about brand and style. For an ugly moment, Ronan wants to find a pair of scissors and hack away at her ponytail until she looks as harsh and unapproachable as he.

He turns away, heavy boots taking him deeper into the store. Common sense suggests stirring up trouble with Noah, maybe destroy a display or startle older customers, but not even this is the sort of masochistic self-indulgence he aches for right now. But here, a fire extinguisher caressing a support beam catches his eye. And there, an emergency exit poses seductively in the corner. A sign murmurs “employees only” like a lover begging for his attention.

Adam Parrish’s slender fingers steal a brief, guilty touch of wool socks from a stand several feet away.

Ronan’s heart nosedives into the pit of his stomach and lower, lower, the rush cascading down even to his toes. What the hell is Gansey’s newest and poorest friend doing in a department store on this side of Henrietta’s wealthiest shopping mall? He could scream. He could march right up and tug on a lock of Adam’s hair and pick a fight until the blood flowing hot, hot, hotter in Ronan’s veins boils over completely. He could forget all about it and pretend this is a coincidence — except any close friend of Richard Gansey III doesn’t believe in coincidences.

_What is this?_ Ronan wants to shout at Adam, at the universe, at God. _Is this fate? Is this for me? Is this a sick joke?_

God characteristically does not reply. Gansey will come searching for him, though, Ronan’s new underwear undoubtedly clutched in his tan, horrifically oblivious hand, and the simple thought of Adam’s sharp eyes observing such a thing makes him want to crawl inside the closest mannequin and die there.

Adam turns, and Ronan throws himself behind a sale sign, nearly toppling it over in his haste when he trips on the base of it. “Fuck you,” he whispers to it. If it’s offended by his harsh words, it doesn’t say. They simply watch together as Adam strides further into the store, shoulders held stiffly as if a fight or flight response could kick in at any moment. The socks Adam abandons are more expensive than his entire outfit; an employee holding a sample bottle of cologne does not bother to assault Adam with its scent or a sale or even a smile; Adam’s slow steps and thoughtful crease between those pale eyebrows paint the monotony of this place a brilliant shade of something different. Something ugly and alien and undeserving.

Ronan recalls the stories from Sunday school, teachings, biblical passages detailing the life of Jesus Christ, a God in the flesh wandering streets packed with sinners. They say it's easy to get lost in the mundane day-to-day and never even realize when the divine walks among you.

He returns to Gansey’s side with a pocket decidedly more full than he left with, but Gansey can’t manage to notice when he hasn’t taken a breath in the last ten minutes.

“Hey,” Ronan interrupts with an intent stare on Retail Barbie, “do you have a condom on you?”

That does the trick; they both fall quiet. To her credit, she even looks embarrassed. “Um, what? No?”

“Then as the unofficial chaperone, I have to ask you to stop eye-fucking him until you’ve at least got some protection. Thanks.”

“Jesus,” says Gansey, going only half as pink as she does, “Christ, Lynch, what is your problem?”

“I should go anyway,” Retail Barbie says, not meeting either of their gazes as she scurries off. Gansey twists around faster than Ronan has time to bask in any smug sense of victory.

“What the hell was that about?”

Ronan shrugs. “I’m done. You were supposed to be shopping, not dating.”

“Conversations aren’t dates,” Gansey says, tone getting drier by the second. “Tell me you aren’t that socially inept now. Should I be dragging you out into the world more often or less? These days I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“I vote less.”

“Color me shocked. Just for being a bastard, I’m going to look for a new sweater, too.”

Ronan feels his own face fall. “I want to leave.”

“We were nearly there.” Gansey remains unsympathetic as he drifts toward the sweater table, a parent apathetically inflicting punishment upon his disobedient child. If Adam Parrish wasn’t within these same four walls, Ronan just might live up to Gansey’s expectations and throw himself on the ground like a toddler. 

Oh, the price of wanting to look cool and unaffected.

Gansey hums a song under his breath as he plucks up a sunflower yellow sweater, a song sounding more and more like something out of the 1950s movies Ronan’s been unfortunate enough to watch since befriending him. Soon enough, the yellow is joined by one in lime green and another in a vibrant purple, each one more hideous than the last. It all makes Ronan wish very much that he’d brought his headphones and a pair of sunglasses.

“Tell me we’re done,” Ronan says. It isn’t often he begs — in fact, it’s never — but he might be getting dangerously close now.

Amusement glitters in Gansey’s eyes. “I have to try them on. Just another few minutes and we’ll be out of here. If you behave, we might even stop for ice cream on the way back.” He meets Ronan’s narrowed eyes only with a simple pat on the back, then he’s off to the dressing rooms. Ronan shoves his hands into his pockets with satisfying force before he follows.

Of course, Gansey trying clothes on isn’t ever as easy as he’d like it to seem. Ronan finds a sturdy wall to rest his back against and stands there for a solid minute or ten when cold fingers finally brush his arm.

Ronan wrenches sideways in an effort to get away before he realizes it’s Noah standing hunched beside him. “Hell, man, warn a guy!”

“He’s changing,” Noah murmurs, quiet and creepy and cryptic as ever.

“No shit. He’s putting on his own private fashion show in there, I guess.”

Noah shakes his head. “Not Gansey.”

Oh.

Possibility makes Ronan’s nerves jitter.

Hooking his hand around Noah’s elbow, he yanks them into another dressing room, where he slams the door shut and locks the bolt into place. Noah looks significantly calmer than Ronan feels; he wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him mercilessly.

Instead, he sneers. “What are you up to, freak?”

“I’m warning you,” Noah says, earnest enough to give Ronan pause. “You could try talking to him, you know. Without being mean. He won’t bite you.”

“I know. I’m the one who bites.” A flash of his teeth, more predatory than friendly. “Now stop being weird, I’m not in a forgiving mood.”

Noah pokes a fingertip against his chest. “We could all be friends someday, you know.”

“I don’t need more friends.”

“Everyone needs friends.”

“Not me.”

Noah’s voice is lower, alarmingly knowing. “Aren’t I your friend?”

Ronan’s aware, at last, of their position. Noah with his back against the mirror, the cool glass smothered beneath Ronan’s palm where it rests beside Noah’s head. Noah’s finger lingers against his chest, and Ronan’s leaned toward him, into his space, intending to intimidate — but he doesn’t feel so intimidating, and Noah certainly doesn’t look intimidated. It’s always been difficult to look him directly in the face, and that is especially the case now, when Noah seems to stare right through him.

“Aren’t we friends?” Noah prompts again, the rest of those icy fingers joining the first to grasp his shirt lightly, gently. He wonders if Noah can feel his pulse racing through the material, through the thin cage of fabric and skin and bone between them.

Yes, Ronan thinks, but he can’t manage to speak. Not when he’s as lightheaded as he is, not when Noah’s features and that irritating little smile are getting clearer and easier to focus on by the second.

“Ronan?” Noah sounds amused now, so amused. Those fingers drift down his shirt, grip his belt, drag their bodies closer together until Ronan’s brain short-circuits with the feeling of another boy’s abdomen pressed to his, warmer than he expects and growing warmer still. “Hello? Cat got your tongue?”

No, but want does. A want buried and miserable and aching, a starving prisoner locked away and only finally tasting sunlight now after years spent in the dark. Noah’s mouth is a window, smiling at his pain.

“Noah,” comes Ronan’s rasp. He leans in, against his better judgement, against his own will, guided entirely by the sheer delight around Noah’s eyes. Their foreheads brush, rest against one another’s, as Noah’s clever fingers slip farther down to cup the front of Ronan’s pants.

If it weren’t for the sturdy wall beneath his palms, Ronan might have fallen over.

“Adam Parrish!”

Gansey’s sudden announcement jerks Ronan back hastily enough to slam his head against the dressing room door. Noah winces on his behalf, smaller and smudgier than he was just seconds ago. As if he hadn’t just messed with Ronan’s head. As if Ronan’s own heart isn’t still pounding with the tense, uncertain whatever-that-was. 

Ronan vows to kill him as soon as they get back home.

“It’s good to see you,” Gansey continues, chipper as ever. The king’s found his favorite chess piece. “Did you see the new sweaters they laid out?”

“I did.” Adam’s voice pulls Noah back into Ronan’s space, hand angling to unlock the door; Ronan hinders the progress with a smack. “Are you sure you’re sticking with that color?”

“What’s wrong with this color? I love yellow.”

Adam hesitates. “It’s very... bright.”

“Of course!” Gansey’s tone says _this is something to be proud of._ Adam’s chuckle says _I’ll humor you, buddy._

Noah’s gaze simply says _please._

Collecting his features into one of unyielding apathy, Ronan shoves Noah’s mindfuckery behind him and at last pulls the door open. When the two walk out, side by side, TROUBLE written above their heads in inelegant cursive, twin expressions of bewilderment cross Gansey and Adam’s faces.

“What on earth were you two doing in there?” Gansey asks. “Together?”

“Hm,” Adam adds, eyes glittering with amusement as he considers them. It’s the first time Ronan’s seen those lips curve into a smile meant for him; he wants to turn around and punch the mirror as hard as he can, watch it shatter to bloody pieces and tear into his skin.

“Having sex,” Ronan says. Gansey sighs. The benefit of being Ronan is exasperating the eternally curious Gansey into giving up nearly every interrogation that doesn’t end in Glendower.

Noah holds up a hand, a wave bordering on shy. “Hi, Adam.”

“Hi. You even shop as a gang?”

“_We_ shop as a gang,” Noah says. “You’re joining the merry men, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t call us a gang,” Gansey says. “What are we? The Dream Pack?”

Something wistful and conflicted takes shape in Ronan’s heart, but he steamrolls it out. “I wish. Then maybe we could get a fucking move on.”

“Kavinsky wouldn’t be caught dead in here,” Noah agrees.

Adam raises an eyebrow. “Who’s Kavinsky?”

“I envy you,” Gansey says, holding up his neat stack of sweaters. “Are you getting anything? We could head to checkout together.”

“Oh.” Alarm flickers over his thin features so quickly Ronan might not have noticed if he weren’t watching closely. “No, I’m not getting anything today. I could join you, though, if you’ll have me.”

“Of course we’ll have you, Parrish. No need to be so formal about it.” Gansey holds up a fist, bumps it playfully against Adam’s shoulder. Ronan scowls. As they break away, Noah in tow, Ronan inhales a steadying breath and heads instead in the direction of the customer service counter.

It’s an easy enough thing to purchase the fancy wool socks, but it’s another altogether to slide them into Adam’s bag while he isn’t looking. Still, he manages, primarily in thanks to Gansey’s refusal to shut up about the leyline they’ll be investigating soon. When Ronan rejoins them in the parking lot, he just barely slides the socks into Adam’s bag and withdraws his hand before those perceptive blue eyes stick to him, surprised to find him so close.

Ronan sneers. “Got a problem, Parrish?”

“Ninety-nine,” Adam says without hesitation, and Noah wheezes out a laugh. “Did you have a problem with your old underwear?”

_Fuck._ Ronan had forgotten entirely about safeguarding Gansey’s other, much more humiliating purchase. “I touched myself too much and frayed holes in them.”

“Charming. Did you consider doing it… outside your boxers?”

“And jack off in front of God? I’m Catholic, you bastard, have some respect.”

“What in God’s name did I just tune back into?” Gansey asks. “Never mind, don’t answer that. Have I just been talking to myself, then?”

“As usual,” Ronan says. He gets yet another sigh for his efforts, but that doesn’t catch Ronan’s attention like Adam does. Adam, with his long legs and eternally stiff shoulders carrying him back to his bicycle. After exchanging a wave with Gansey, he’s riding off, away from them and from over-priced goods and from the sharp sting of desire still prickling beneath Ronan’s skin.

“I like Adam,” Noah says as they slide into the car, just like he's said every week since they met him. Gansey smiles broadly, something proud in it, as if he manifested the glorious Adam Parrish into their universe all by himself.

“He's a keeper,” Gansey agrees, like always.

“He’s an asshole,” Ronan adds cheerily, twirling the Pig’s ancient stereo system’s volume controls to ear-splitting levels and effectively drowning out Gansey’s protest. 

Catching Noah’s eye in the rearview mirror to share a smirk over the Gansey-unfriendly lyrics pouring out of the car is their normal; the wink Noah offers isn’t. But they’ll talk about that later, maybe, if ever — it could just as easily be a more physical conversation featuring Ronan's accusing arm stuffing him into a headlock and Noah’s sputters for breaths his only apologies. That can be good enough. Ronan can pretend their moment of weird never happened, stuff it somewhere deep inside a closet he’s already gotten used to locking up tight.

Adam calls in the evening, and Ronan pauses his music without taking his headphones off; a fly on the wall. Well, flat on the floor, actually, the dying sun’s rays peeking out at him through the miniature windows of the miniature streets of Gansey’s miniature cardboard Henrietta.

“Socks?” Gansey asks into the phone. “No, I didn’t buy any socks. I’m sorry to say it could be that Noah pranked you.” A pause. “Yes, or maybe you forgot you’d put them there…”

The floor is cold where Ronan presses his cheek against it. Winter has been rolling in with a vengeance, promising to be a vengeful one, and Gansey echoes as much to Adam. What luck it is to find free socks in your bag right when you need them most, Adam. In this moment, Ronan’s thankful for the charismatic, talkative pieces of Gansey — maybe he, if anyone, can prompt Adam’s guilt to let him keep those stupid socks and allow his stupid, poor feet to stay warm over the next few months.

He wonders if he’s the only one who’s ever noticed how worn out Adam’s shoes are.

“Damn it,” Gansey says, as soon as he hangs up the phone. Which isn’t soon at all, really; an hour has slipped by, and Ronan’s burned through an entire album of songs. When Ronan makes a mostly disinterested questioning noise, he continues, “I completely forgot to look at socks, now I’m envious. Do you think they have patterned ones? Smart-looking dogs and avocados, that sort of thing? We could go back next weekend, maybe even invite Parrish.”

Ronan pauses. He can feel Gansey’s gaze on him, knows that his mouth is probably pressed into that line it becomes when Gansey’s already preparing convincing counter-arguments, or even threats against Ronan’s stubborn streak.

“Fine,” Ronan says. “Shopping isn’t that bad. But you owe me pizza.”

Gansey’s answering smile is so dazzling that Ronan has to play the angriest, cruelest songs he owns to cope with it.

**Author's Note:**

> I might write companion/spin-off pieces to this or maybe even additional chapters but idk??? eye emojis


End file.
